Little Words
by The Dreaming Demon
Summary: A collection of short Billy/Machiavelli one-shots all set in the same time-line. "The course of true love never did run smooth." -Shakespeare
1. Little Words

**A/N: **Because I can't find **_ANY_** Billy/Mac fan fiction. So, here. Have some fluff that was written at 1:00 am.

* * *

**Little Words**

It was now or never. Billy the Kid had meticulously practiced the phrase again and again, and again. He doubted how great the grammar was on the online translator, but an English/Italian dictionary was sure to draw Machiavelli's attention, and he wanted this to be a surprise, no matter how small.

The phrase played over and over in the outlaw's mind, and he whispered it under his breath the way the recording had. His accent didn't quite capture the lilting tune of the words, and it was hopeless to even attempt rolling his r's. But again, it was now or never.

Stepping into the sitting room, Billy stared for a moment at the back of Machiavelli's head, bent over a book. The American tried to swallow, but found his throat suddenly constricted. He steadied himself, and then crossed the room silently. Niccolò's gray eyes remained fixed upon the pages until a trembling pair of hands took the volume from him and carefully set it aside without losing the man's place.

The Italian looked up as Billy, looking nervous, lowered himself into his lap, straddling the older Immortal's waist. Niccolò's surprise was only increased when the American's fingers lifted to rest on either side of his face, and their foreheads were pressed together. For a moment, neither spoke, moved, or hardly dared to breathe. Then Billy leaned forward, and his lips found the Italian's ear. His breathing was shaky but warm.

"_Tu sei l'amore di mio vita_," he whispered softly, feeling heat rush into his cheeks at the sheer ridiculousness of the sentiment. Machiavelli leaned back, his eyes wider than usual but betraying no emotion; they simply examined the younger Immortal for a moment.

"_E tu sei mio_," he replied softly, his hand coming up to brush a strand of long, sandy hair away from Billy's face.

"I, um... didn't learn anything other than that," the American said sheepishly, averting his gaze. "And... I know it sounds kinda dumb and corny, but before you say any-"

Niccolò's lips found Billy's, silencing him. For a long, sweet moment they kissed, before the younger pulled back.

"Did I say it right, though?" He asked, slightly out of breath.

"Close enough," replied Machiavelli, a smile crossing his features. Grinning, Billy the Kid leaned forward again and resumed the very promising kiss.


	2. Candlelight

**A/N:** This one is kind of long. There _will_ be connected one-shots to this later on. It's also kind of corny/cheesy/crappy/etc. But whatever.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, really it was early evening. Billy was strewn across the couch eating popcorn and watching television, while Machiavelli sat reading in the chair in the corner. Wind roared outside and rattled the window panes, as rain pounded heavily and noisily against the roof and walls, and the occasional boom of thunder was heard. They passed in this companionable state for awhile, until the power failed. The TV flickered off and the lamp Niccolò had been using to read went out.

"Oh, mother-"

"BILLY!"

"Sorry," the American said, sitting up on the couch and looking around. The sky outside was dark and the gray lighting in the room was incredibly dim. He could just barely see Machiavelli's silhouette getting to his feet. Billy stood as well. "You have candles, right, Mac?"

"Yes. And don't call me that," the Italian muttered, making his way into the kitchen. After the events on Alcatraz, Niccolò had rented a condo just outside San Francisco, and he was carefully trying to find a way to get back to his bank account in Italy and find somewhere for he and Billy to hide, but they had been there for almost three weeks. Their Elder masters were still operating under the impression that something had gone horribly wrong and that the two Immortals had been eaten or worse by Areop-Enap when she had awoken. It was a clever cover, and so far seemed to be working. However, this meant that Billy and Niccolò were not allowed to use their auras, even for a moment, or they would give themselves away.

Though of course they could not always control their own powers of healing; Billy's wound had closed after a few long and painful hours, and the only remnant was a long scar across his torso, and Niccolò had eventually reverted to the age he had been when bestowed immortality, however, his hair was being terribly stubborn about growing back.

Machiavelli poked around one of the cupboards for a minute, and finally retrieved a handful of candles and a box of matches. Turning back towards the sitting room, Niccolò was startled when he saw Billy standing mere inches from him. A shock of lightning lit up the room and showed the American Machiavelli's horrified face. He began laughing loudly, and the Italian walked past him briskly, highly unamused. He set the candles around the room and lit them, filling the area with a warm light. Billy followed after him, still giggling, and he dropped back down on the couch. Niccolò gave him an annoyed look, but rather than say anything, he grabbed his book once more.

The Italian read until Billy had composed himself, and there were about three minutes of relative silence. However, Niccolò was then promptly interrupted by the former outlaw as he reseated himself on the arm of the chair and took the book out of his hands. Machiavelli took a deep breath through his nose and looked up at Billy. "Yes?"

The American carefully folded a corner of the page and then tossed the book over his shoulder. Machiavelli flinched. "I'm bored," Billy explained simply. The older Immortal sighed.

"And it falls to me to entertain you?"

"Niccolò," Billy used his first name, which caught the Italian's attention. He climbed onto the man's lap and looked him meaningfully in the eyes. "I'm bored," he repeated, slipping his arms around Machiavelli's neck.

"Oh." _He always does this while I'm reading_. Nevertheless, Niccolò leaned up, the tip of his nose brushing against the American's.

Billy's lips covered his quickly, and Machiavelli's fingers reached up, one hand entwining in the American's sandy hair, the other curling around the collar of Billy's t-shirt and pulling his upper body closer. The kiss was passionate, hungry. Billy's hands moved to Niccolò's chest and began undoing the buttons of his shirt, while the Italian's tongue roughly forced its way into the younger Immortal's mouth. Billy moaned softly into the kiss, briefly abandoning his unbuttoning and clutching Niccolò's shoulders tightly. The tip of Niccolò's tongue danced in gentle spirals on the roof of Billy's mouth.

Machiavelli broke the kiss once, only to pull Billy's shirt off rapidly, then their lips, like magnets, reconnected. Niccolò's fingers found the scar on the American's back and traced meaningless patterns across the rough skin. Billy was struggling to undo the last button on Machiavelli's shirt, fingers working desperately, when-

CRASH! The two men sat bolt upright, staring in the direction of the dark hallway. The sound had come from the kitchen, but now their condo was eerily silent. The wind howled outside, but no noise came from indoors.

"What was that?" Billy whispered, still clinging to the older Immortal's shirt. They waited for another half-minute in silence.

"Probably thunder, or a branch against the window," Machiavelli explained, though he did not sound fully convinced. After a few more seconds without any more noise, the Italian shrugged it off and leaned forward, pressing his lips against Billy's collarbone, the tip of his tongue darting out against the skin. The American fully unbuttoned Niccolò's shirt and was sliding it off his shoulders when there was the sound of movement in the hallway. They both looked toward the doorway. They could see nothing in the darkness beyond, but Niccolò could feel Billy's heart beating even faster than it had been already, and he held him closer.

"What if it's a vampire?"

"Billy, it isn't a vampire. Vampires have to be invited in to your homes."

"Oh, right..." There was another short pause. "What if it's-" Niccolò sighed and untangled himself from Billy, climbing out of the chair and fastening a few of the buttons. Billy grabbed his arm tightly. "Mac! You can't just go out there! What if it is something dangerous? You can't use your aura to fight it off."

The Italian paused at this, realizing that the Kid was right. Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning, closely followed by a bellow of thunder. Whatever was in the hall darted into the room and under the couch in a dark streak. Both Immortals shouted in surprise, and somehow ended up standing on the chair, clinging to one another and staring at the sofa in terror.

"Oh my god, it's gonna eat us," Billy whimpered into Machiavelli's shoulder. "It's gonna skin us and then eat us bit by bit." The Italian swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"I-I don't know, Billy. It looked rather... small," he replied, though his voice shook. Thunder roared again, and in its wake, a small, fearful "meow" came from under the couch. The Immortals exchanged surprised looks. Machiavelli carefully climbed off the chair and crouched beside the couch. Taking a deep breath, he peeked underneath.

Sure enough, shaking violently, drenched from the rain and very afraid, was a little black kitten. Niccolò reached slowly and carefully under the sofa towards it, and the cat came to him willingly.

"Here's your vampire," he told Billy, straightening up and holding the trembling feline. The American visibly relaxed, and he stepped off the chair, coming over to pet the cat behind its ears. The cat purred.

"Can we keep him?" He asked, looking up to Machiavelli, his blue eyes wide and pleading. "Please?" Machiavelli looked between the kitten and his lover, debating. He noticed that Billy's eyes looked completely beautiful in the candlelight- He sighed.

"Fine."

"Yes! You're the best, Mac!" Billy kissed him and then continued petting the kitten. About a half hour later, the feline had a place to sleep in the kitchen in a shoebox with a blanket. The window had been left open a few inches, and it had gotten in that way. Also, Billy had dubbed him "Dracula." The storm was subsiding, and as Billy tried to get the cat used to its new living arrangements, the power flickered back on.

Billy left the kitchen after Dracula fell asleep minutes later, and shut off the sitting room lights again. Machiavelli sighed heavily. He had been trying to return to his book, and all but the candle beside him were extinguished. He set aside the book, though, as Billy crossed to him, and returned to his arms. The American's lips were at his neck, and he whispered softly against his skin, "We're not done just because of a cat, are we?"

"Of course not," Machiavelli returned, and blew out the last candle.


	3. Grey Eyed Jealousy

**A/N: **Damn, this one is long. This one is set before the others, only a few days after Alcatraz. So... here you go. And you may ask, "Hey, are you going to end _every_ chapter with a potential innuendo/cliffhanger?" and I may say, "It seems so. It seems so."

* * *

Billy trudged solemnly next to Machiavelli as they passed through the crowded shopping mall. He had not wanted to go shopping for new clothes, nor did he really understand why they were hiding so thoroughly. As long as they didn't use their auras, they should be fine. However, Niccolò had insisted they get entirely new wardrobes, even though all the Italian had bought so far were suits and fancy slacks and shirts. Billy had tried to coax him to wear a pair of jeans earlier, and had been very close, too. However, a smartly dressed mannequin had distracted Machiavelli, and the American had been reduced once again to boredom.

He was surprised that the older Immortal so enjoyed shopping. But of course, he was a lover of designer clothes, so Billy supposed it shouldn't have shocked him. The American, on the other hand, loathed shopping. He saw nothing wrong with a simple pair of jeans, a few t-shirts and a good pair of boots. What more did he need?

Machiavelli, currently browsing a window display, was completely oblivious to his friend's impatience. In fact, he did not even glance up to see if the American was following until he heard the younger man give a low whistle, and mutter, "Hot _damn_." He looked round just in time to see Billy setting off quite determinedly towards the fountain nearby. Three young women, all wearing different colored tank tops and very short shorts were giggling there and drinking smoothies. Sighing at the American Immortal's new distraction, Niccolò followed, stopping by a nearby plant to watch as Billy strolled directly up to the girl in the middle, and grinned sheepishly.

"Hey, hi. Sorry to bother you," he began nervously. "I was um, wondering if you lovely ladies knew where I could find the food court?" Machiavelli rolled his eyes. Obviously it was just a few stores over.

"Oh, right over there," the girl replied, pointing. She reached up and pulled at the bottom of her shirt, not so subtly revealing more cleavage, but Billy's eyes strayed from her face only for a moment. He smiled.

"Thank you very much! I'm Billy, by the way," he added, holding out his hand.

"Kathy," she replied, while her friends giggled. She took Billy's hand, but instead of shaking it, the Immortal brought the girl's knuckles softly up to his lips. She blushed a shade of pink to rival even her bright tank top.

From where he stood observing, Niccolò felt a strange pang in his chest; a feeling he had not had in many, many years. Jealousy. His jaw tightened and so did his grip on their bags. He had not admitted this, hardly even to himself, but he found the younger Immortal to be incredibly attractive. Gorgeous was the word he had thought upon first sight. Yet he had known Billy for little more than a week, and had said nothing of his feelings; feelings that had grown much stronger after their experiences on Alcatraz. He had done quite well thus far in hiding his emotions, but watching the handsome American flirt so shamelessly with those women- it ignited a fire within Niccolò's chest.

"And your lovely friends?" Billy asked, gently releasing Kathy's hand and fixing the other two women with an enchanting smile.

"Alex," one said shyly, and the other giggled out, "Veronica." Billy kissed their hands as well, which made them grin widely.

"Now, I see you beautiful ladies have smoothies, but might I have the honor of treating you three to-"

"Billy!" The American turned to see Machiavelli walking towards him, and he sighed, the bright smile sliding off his face.

"Oh, is this your father?" the girl in the blue shirt, Alex, asked innocently. Niccolò visibly tensed, his knuckles white with their vicious grip on their purchases. Billy noticed and spoke quickly.

"No, um, he's my uncle, actually." Machiavelli's look said quite clearly, "not better," but the younger Immortal had already spoken. The girls cheerfully greeted Niccolò, who nodded politely.

"I hate to interrupt, but Billy, we're leaving," he said, with an edge of distinct harshness to his voice.

"Oh. Um, right. I'm sorry, ladies. Maybe I could get a phone number and we could all do lunch some other time?"

"Billy, when are you going to have time for that?" Niccolò interrupted again, just as all three girls reached for their phones. The American sighed heavily.

"Well, as my uncle has a point, I'm afraid this is where we part. Thank you three for pointing me in the right direction," Billy said, winking. All three girls blushed and giggled, waving as Billy marched after Machiavelli. When they were out of sight and earshot of the fountain, Billy pulled the Italian to a halt, glaring up at him.

"What is your _problem_?" He demanded. "I was doing so well! I had all three of them in the palm of my hand. _Three girls_, Mac! I know you probably haven't flirted with anyone for awhile, but that's an accomplishment to be proud of!"

"Billy, we are supposed to be lying low, and you dating three women at the same time would be very eye catching. Besides, I'm sure if you said _anything_ to those particular girls they'd be falling all over you." Machiavelli began walking again. "And how many times do I have to tell you not to use that stupid nickname?"

Billy was furious. "God, it's like you don't want me to have any fun! I didn't even want to go shopping in the first place."

"Stop acting like a child," Niccolò retorted sharply as they left the mall and headed for their rented car. He was also irate, though he would never say why. "I don't want to deal with your temper tantrums. Unlock the doors, please." Nothing happened. Niccolò turned to face Billy, who was seething, his arms crossed tightly and his narrowed eyes like twin storms, filled with anger. "Billy-"

"I'm not moving from this spot until-" a car honked and Billy stepped forwards into their parking space to allow the vehicle to pass. "I'm not moving from _this_ spot until you tell me why you won't loosen up for one damn afternoon. I wasn't even doing anything wrong!"

Machiavelli opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off. "My best friend _died_ a few days ago, Mac! The least you could do was let me talk to some girls. You are such a- a-" unable to conceive a strong enough word for what the Italian Immortal was, he simply let out a small scream of frustration. Niccolò was silent. Of course Billy was still wounded by the loss of Black Hawk. The Italian sighed.

"Billy, I'm sorry," he said, defeated. "I just..." he stopped himself. He just _what_ exactly? He just hated seeing Billy show anyone affection because he ached for those lips and fingers to caress his skin? Because he wanted that smile and those glittering eyes for himself? Because when he lay awake at night and his thoughts strayed to the deepest desires he had, Niccolò imagined unspeakable things involving the young American and himself? He must have stood silent for longer than he thought, for Billy, looking no less wrathful, inquired just that awful question.

"You just _what_?" There was no answer. "You just _WHAT_, Mac?" He asked again, much louder.

"I just hated seeing you throw yourself at them," he answered calmly. "You could do much better, Billy." The American laughed scornfully.

"If I didn't know any better, Mac, I'd think you were jealous," he sneered. Niccolò said nothing, but looked away, and Billy's rage vanished instantly. "Oh my God. You were jealous." Still no response. "Mac, I-"

"Stop using that dreadful nickname."

"_Niccolò_," Billy tried again, and the Italian's gray eyes lifted to the younger Immortal's face. He had been under the impression that the American truly did not know his first name. Machiavelli was more surprised, however, to find that Billy was now standing quite close to him. "Niccolò, I- I had no idea." The emotion in his eyes was indistinguishable, and Machiavelli averted his own gaze.

"Billy, these bags are quite heavy. If you could just unlock the car." The vehicle chirped welcomingly behind them, and the Italian quickly turned and placed their bags in the back seat. When he closed the door and turned around, he found that the American was again standing very, very close. Machiavelli kept his expression blank, but his heart was beating quite fast. Billy said nothing, but reached one hand up to the older Immortal's face, which he brought down towards him as he rose up on his toes and pressed their lips together for a brief moment. When Billy dropped back to his normal height, there was a pause in which both men looked at each other in silence. Then the American climbed into the driver's seat of the car.

"Let's go home," he said, smiling up at Niccolò.


	4. Palm to Palm

**A/N:** Hooray! New chapter! For time line reference, this is the night before they leave for Italy. The next 23 (yes, 23!) chapters will come from a 30 day challenge that I sort of tweaked to out purposes, with the prompts as the prompts for the next chapters. So enjoy!

**Prompt 1: Holding Hands**

* * *

"Mac? You awake?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Sorry. Niccolò, are you-?"

"Obviously I am awake, Billy. Why?" The Italian Immortal opened his eyes, and saw in the soft glow of the moon Billy's wide blue eyes gazing at him.

"I was just thinking," the American began tentatively, "what are we going to do if our masters find us? You know, eventually-"

"Billy. Do you really think I haven't planned for that?" Billy shrugged, pulling the sheets over his shoulders. Machiavelli took his lover's hand and entwined their fingers, no longer annoyed. "I will never let any harm come to you." He kissed the outlaw's fingers softly, feeling the younger Immortal shift closer to him in their bed. "I would die for you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Billy replied. "Niccolò, you have to promise me that we'll stay together, always. Whether we live or die." Machiavelli smiled softly, reaching out with his other hand to brush the American's hair from his face.

"Billy," he began.

"And don't you dare sell me some bullshit about how you'd want me to go on, because I can't. I just _can't_ if you aren't there, okay?" Billy's voice had a note of hysteria in it, and he sounded like he was fighting very hard not to cry. Machiavelli was very quiet. "I just... I was perfectly fine until you waltzed into my life and now... Now you're like..." he sighed, wrestling with his words and feelings. "You're like this drug, and I know that's cliche, but it's true, and if you died, so would I, okay? So... just... just please promise me you'll never leave me, even if that means we both die. Or, hell, only leave me if it means you can go on living. But I cannot exist without you." The outlaw's knuckles were white, and he gripped the Italian's hand as though if he released it for one single moment the man would be gone forever. For the space of a few heartbeats, neither Immortal spoke.

"Billy," Niccolò began again, choosing his words with incredible care. "I will never, never leave you to die." The other man began to interject, but the Italian pressed a forefinger to his lips. "And... if that means we die together then... then we die together. Because... I love you, Billy. You are my whole heart, and my world, and everything in it- sun, moon, the air in my lungs, the gravity holding me down-" he paused, taking a deep breath. "And I know _that_ sounds cliche, but it's the truth. I love you with everything I have and everything I am."

"I love you, too," was the simple, whispered reply. Machiavelli gently took Billy's other hand in his, and pulled the younger man's arms around him. The American repositioned himself so he was curled against Niccolò's side, his head resting on the Italian's chest, where he could hear his heartbeat. "I love you, too," he repeated again, perhaps to savor the way those words felt on his lips.  
Their fingers were still entwined on one hand, and like that they drifted off to sleep...


	5. Warmth

**A/N:** This took way longer to write than it should have. But oh well. Italy plot line time! Yeah!

**Prompt 2: Cuddling Somewhere**

* * *

Italy was warm. The Mediterranean climate and bright Summer sun filled everyone with glee. Including one young American, who was lounging, quite content, upon a wicker bench on the balcony of the hotel room and reading a comic book. He could hear the traffic below, the birds above, and the hum of the air conditioner and low buzz of the television from inside.

He could also hear the soft approach of footsteps, and a smile curled across his lips just as they were covered by another pair. Machiavelli pulled Billy up into the kiss, then sat beside him, breaking away and sipping his iced tea.

"Cheater," Billy teased, setting his comic aside and curling against Niccolò's torso, pulling the older man's arm around his shoulders. "Just ask for me to move."

"If I had asked, would you have sat up?"

"Probably not."

"That's what I thought." Niccolò smiled softly and planted a gentle kiss on the American's forehead, holding him closer. Billy's arms snaked around his body, his head finding the crook between Machiavelli's neck and shoulder. Italy had thus far been perfect. Over the past ten days, Niccolò had retrieved the funds from his private bank account, taken Billy out to romantic Italian dinners, taken him on late night strolls, and the pair spent many_ intimate _evenings in their hotel. And now they were set to return to America in a week. Dracula had been left behind, but they had gotten one of their neighbors to watch him, and their trip had been more like a vacation than anything else. Stress free, romantic, relaxing.

Billy grabbed the straw of his lover's drink, and took a long sip of the iced tea. Machiavelli eyed him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, and held him more tightly, setting the drink aside when the younger Immortal was done, and winding his other arm around Billy's thin frame. They stayed like that in companionable silence for several minutes, enjoying the warmth of the sun and one another.

Billy, as usual, broke the silence first.

"Ma- er, Niccolò?"

"Mmm?"

"Can we just... stay home tonight? I don't want to go out to dinner." He pressed himself closer against Niccolò. "I just want to stay in. Watch a movie, curl up on the couch together, go to bed early." His eyes glinted in their mischievous way, and he planted a few soft kisses upon the Italian's neck.

Machiavelli smiled. "That sounds lovely," he replied, thoroughly enjoying the feel of the American's lips against his skin. He curled the fingers of one hand into Billy's hair, and closed his eyes. It had been awhile since they just... _cuddled_. Wound their arms around each other and relaxed, just enjoyed the company.

The American sighed in content. "I love you," Billy murmured softly.

"_E ti amo_," Machiavelli replied, tipping Billy's head so he could kiss him easily. The younger Immortal smiled against Niccolò's mouth, and he leaned back.

"Let's go pick out a movie," Billy said eagerly, untangling himself from Machiavelli and bounding inside. Smiling, the older man shook his head, grabbing the discarded comic book and his drink and following the outlaw into the cool hotel room.


	6. Movie Night

**A/N: **This chapter was initially going to be funny... oops.

**Prompt: Gaming/Watching a Movie**

* * *

"It's a classic movie, Billy, how have you never seen it?"

"I dunno, I was never interested. Do we have to watch it?"

"It's a rather good movie."

"But it's a stupid romance!"

"Billy."

"Fine. But I've never been a big DiCaprio fan," Billy grumbled, opening the DVD case reluctantly. The cheesy images of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet standing on the stern of a ship under the silvery word, _Titanic_stared up at him, and the outlaw grimaced. He placed the DVD in the player with as much care as though it would bite him, and closed the drawer manually.

"Billy, there is a button-"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. It hasn't broken yet and I've been closing it like that this whole time," the American replied moodily, dropping onto the couch beside Machiavelli. The opening menu came on and Billy grudgingly pressed play. He folded his arms over his narrow chest and Niccolò scooted closer on the sofa, and pulled the younger Immortal close, planting a soft kiss in his sandy hair.

"I'm bored already," The American remarked, even as the opening title appeared on the screen.

"It hasn't even started yet," Machiavelli said patiently.

"Exactly." Billy sighed loudly, squirming on the couch.

"Now you're just being difficult."

"So, they're diving into the wreck. Whoopdee doo," he commented a bit later. Niccolò pinched Billy's arm sharply, eliciting a small, "ow!" Billy glared, but fell silent.

"What's in the safe?" Billy asked after watching for a minute more.

"Just watch," Machiavelli sighed, now growing irate.

"Ew," he remarked, as an overflow of mud exited the safe.

"Please be quiet."

There was another moment of silence.

"They found porn?"

"Shh!"

"But-"

"Billy, shut up."

"Okay, okay."

"Thank you."

"That's a really crappy TV- OW! Stop pinching me!"

"Stop speaking."

"Fine."

For several minutes, Billy kept his mouth shut, and Machiavelli relaxed, his thumb softly stroking Billy's arm as they watched the film.

"Snazzy graphics there- ow! Sorry," The outlaw huffed, realizing he would not be allowed his usual snarky commentary. He settled to silence for the next few scenes, often having to stop himself from making a snide remark. Niccolò rewarded his quiet with a few soft kisses along his jaw, which definitely seemed to help encourage Billy to remain so.

"Some damn good CGI for whenever this was made," the American murmured, allowing himself to relax into his lover's embrace, pleased when he was not pinched for the comment.

"Oh, snap," Billy said at the unfortunate circumstance Jack was found in. Niccolò could not fight the small smile that crept across his lips, though, at Billy's sudden enthusiasm. Perhaps he was actually paying attention, after all. In fact, the American seemed almost interested now.

"Oh! That's the necklace!"

"Obviously." Niccolò held the outlaw closer, and several more scenes passed quietly.

"Ick. A high society dinner. I wouldn't last five minutes."

"Contrariwise, William, I think you'd do just fine."

"My name's not William," Billy snapped.

"Sorry, _Henry_." Machiavelli's smirk was antagonizing.

"It's Billy," the American growled, shoving Niccolò off him and moving away to sulk on the opposite end of the sofa for another portion of the film. But slowly, the pair shifted together again, Billy curling against Niccolò's torso once more.

And then the iconic scene at the front of the ship- and Niccolò caught Billy off guard by kissing him at the exact moment as Jack and Rose; pulling him close and passionately, deeply, kissing him, laying the younger man back against the arm of the couch.

Billy broke them apart when suddenly he heard- "wearing _only_ this." Machiavelli sighed, peeved, but sat up straight again, pulling Billy up with him. _Of course he'd be interested in this part_, The Italian thought, almost amused, almost angry.

After the drawing scene, Niccolò began kissing along Billy's neck, but the American seemed at last interested in the film. "Stop," he muttered, but Machiavelli refused to relent, his tongue flickering out against Billy's skin. Billy relaxed, allowing Niccolò to continue, but sat up straight a few scenes later.

"Whoa! Did they do it?"

"I thought you didn't want to watch this," The Italian spoke against the American Immortal's collarbone.

"Well, it isn't so bad," Billy admitted. "Still pretty cheesy, though."

Yet, when the ship began to hit the iceberg, Billy's grip on Niccolò was vice-like, his blue eyes wide. He was pressing himself tightly against the Italian's body, grimacing as the ship on screen began flooding. They watched until the boat began going under.

"It would be terrible to be on that, wouldn't it," Niccolò mused.

"Yes, it was," Billy said stiffly. Machiavelli looked to him in surprise, and paused the movie. Billy took a deep breath. "It wasn't that I thought it was boring, Niccolò."

"Billy, I-"

"It's cool," he replied flatly, grabbing the remote and continuing the film. Yet as the movie progressed, and the ship continued to be dragged under, Billy's face grew more blank, and Niccolò's concern increased. He had no idea Billy had been on board the doomed ship, or had even ever left America, though he supposed he should not have been surprised.

"Billy," he asked carefully. "Why were you-"

"I was running an errand for my master," he replied, voice quivering slightly. "I was fine, I'm alive, it's all good." But it was very obviously not "all good."

"Did you... escape on a lifeboat, or..."

"No. One of the rescue boats that came back." The American looked up at Niccolò and took a very deep breath. "I was in the water for... a long time, I don't know how long. I was almost... it was so cold, I-" he paused, his gaze flicking back to the film, and a small involuntary shiver coursing through him. "I thought I wouldn't make it, until I saw the light from the boats. I started... screaming. There was hardly anyone left... and these bodies everywhere in life jackets, bobbing in the water like corks." He leaned his face into the older man's chest, falling silent.

Machiavelli rested his chin atop Billy's head, his arms holding the American tightly, protectively, and he quietly turned off the movie. Billy did not need to relive that. Instead they sat in their hotel room, and Niccolò allowed Billy to hold onto him so tightly that it hurt.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"It's fine," was the muffled reply. The outlaw lifted his face to meet the Italian's gaze, his expression completely vulnerable. Machiavelli kissed him fiercely, hating the ghost of fear lurking in the younger Immortal's eyes, wanting to exorcise it for good. Billy clung to him, his lips fervently moving with Niccolò's, expelling all other thought and feeling from his being but the rush of being kissed, his love for the Italian. After what could have been two or twenty minutes, Machiavelli parted their lips.

Billy looked present, alright, and reassured. Niccolò pressed his lips softly to the American's forehead and stroked the hair from his eyes. "Dinner?"

"Sounds good."


End file.
